


Eternal Idol

by StellarPen



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gomezisangry, IloveangryGomez, Influnencedbysculpture, Kink, Married Couple, POV Multiple, Rodin's sculptures, missingscene, moviecompliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 02:04:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16358579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellarPen/pseuds/StellarPen
Summary: “You could have died,” he nearly moans, the urgent agony of it too big to comprehend."Gomez is not entirely convinced his wife made the right decision.





	Eternal Idol

 

* * *

She stares up at the house, their home, pausing for a moment with her fingers curled around the rough, uneven surface of Gate. The metal shudders under her touch and then slides silently open, leaving just enough of a gap for her to slip through.

In the face of such loyalty, she feels, for a fleeting moment, that she may weep.

**-0-**

Hurling himself into their car, Thing pulls the door closed and jumps onto the dash as the engine roars to life.

“Why would she think of doing this?” He murmurs frantically, ignoring the red light he just careened through and turning so sharply the Duesenberg bounces onto two wheels for a moment before righting itself.

Thing taps out that he ‘Doesn’t know.’

And of course the irony is that the question was more a rhetorical one, than it was truly one seeking an answer. He already knows why his wife would put herself in such a ridiculously perilous situation.

And perhaps he is partly to blame for it.

**-0-**

She hears him before she sees him, the splintering of glass heralding him as he flips through the window in a shower of glistening fragments, and for a moment it makes her smile.

Always one to make an entrance.

And it’s gratifying to see he decided to dress for the occasion. She was starting to grow frustrated with his new look.

Those initial thoughts are quickly set aside in favor of abject panic as Tully brandishes a sword, and while he’s hardly her husband's equal when it comes to sparring, for a moment it occurs to her that she may have bitten off more than she can chew.

“Cara Mia!”

“Mon Cher, take care.”

**-0-**

Not one prone to fumbling, he struggles to loosen the buckles on the straps, concentrating on the curl of her pale white fingers, the glisten of her wedding ring, the blood dripping from his own hand, as she promises ‘Later’.

Under more fruitful circumstances, he might take delicious pleasure in this act and that promise, but the urgency of the moment renders it almost impossible. And yet here she is, dismounting from a favoured instrument of torture, under circumstances entirely out with either of their control.

For the first time in his life, Gomez knows what it is to feel fear in its purest and most virtuous flavour as she steps down and falls into his arms, and winds her arms around his neck.

He risks a glance behind him, watching as the man  claiming to be his brother, who has both betrayed and saved them, advances on Tully and Pinderschloss with that delightful little book, and then he pulls on their own means of escape so the bookcase swings open.

In a desperate urge to see them both to safety, it occurs to him that his only goal is getting home to their children, and to make sure he never lets her slip from his grasp again. If his suddenly reacquainted sibling must die to have that happen, then so be it.

**-0-**

She knows him like she knows the map of her own skin, or the verses of _Paradise Lost._ She knows the rhythm of him, his tells and temperaments.

And she knows she has upset him deeply.

She knows because he is silently charging ahead of her, descending deeper into the subterranean world - bigger than the house itself - of their home. In the dim light of the torches, she can see the blood dripping onto the ground from the wound on his hand.

For all the pain Gomez has suffered - most of it inflicted entirely willingly by herself and entirely desired by him - it is strange to her that she feels this is a bigger wound than it is in the literal sense.

The metaphor in the subject is so much larger, and damaging, than she wants to acknowledge. Yet she must.  

She does not want to upset him further, and her emotions are dangerously close to the surface, so she chooses to remain silent and follow him, cradling her own bruised wrists and quickly blooming guilt.

He leads them further down, to the lake, and motions to the waiting gondola, and despite his anger, he offers his hand to assist her into the vessel.

**-0-**

He watches her as he takes up the oar and begins punting them across the silent lake. He cannot hear the chaos raging above, but he doesn’t doubt what is happening in the library either.  

Or indeed what is about to occur between them - what he feels, and no doubt what she feels, cannot go unsaid.

“You are angry,” she says quietly, as the gondola bumps against the stone jetty, and he lashes the ropes to the mooring.

“I need a brandy.”

With trembling fingers, he twists the code into the vault door and pushes it open, stepping aside so she can enter first.

**-0-**

Going directly to the myriad of bottles and decanters set out across the sideboard, she chooses a French brandy imported during The Revolution, and pours two generous measures into the awaiting brandy bowls.

She takes a sip of her own before turning and handing him his. He  has sunk into a chair, and his fingers drum impatiently on his thigh.

“Why did you come back here?”

He looks up at her, eyes wide with rarely displayed fury, and she feels her own anger well up.

“Because you would not,” she answer sharply, turning away from him, determined to create distance.

“He had you lashed to our torture wheel and despite what you appear to believe, even you are not impervious to a gun.”

The venom in his voice, the sheer force of his rage, catches her off-guard.

She spins on her own heels to face her husband, and she think to add one more to the four blistering arguments they have had over the course of their marriage.

“Do not dare hold me responsible for your own guilt,” she says, so quietly she knows he has to concentrate on hearing her. “I refused to lie in a motel and watch you fall apart while I could attempt to reason with them.”

“Greed has no reason,” he responds hotly.

“Well perhaps I was mistaken,” she crosses her arms across her own chest. “But at least I tried.”

“I would much appreciate if you would not dance around what you so clearly want to say; that I have let you down by not fighting for us.”

She looks up at him, “That is not what I feel,” she turns away from him, knowing tears are about to shatter her own confidence. “Perhaps,” she says, voice hitching on emotions she did not want to pay host to, “you need to look inside yourself to battle with that.”

“You’re right,” he says, the tension snapping like tightly strung rope.

Then there is silence.

She does not see him, or hear him, but a moment later feels him grip her shoulders and spin her violently.

**-0-**

He is mere milimetres away from her pale face, and the tears that are just lingering in her eyes are enough to make him take pause for a moment. The only sound is the sound of his own frantic breathing, and the tight fury in his chest is quickly changing shape into something he is unsure he should feel; but he feels it nonetheless.

“You could have died,” he nearly moans, the urgent agony of it too big to comprehend.

And with that she grips the sides of his face and crushes her  mouth against his. The taste of brandy on her red lips, the urgent clashing of tongues and teeth and souls, are enough to render their previous anger mute in the face of desperation.

“I am sorry,” she whines plaintively, stripping his wasitcoat from his body as he yanks the neckline of her satin dress down, the sounds of the material tearing through their breathing.

He trails his mouth from her lips to her jaw line, and down the elongated column of her neck, while his hand teases her exposed breast.

“I could have lost you,” he murmurs in her ear. “A concept we often discuss in the abstract, under circumstances orchestrated by us...not by some charlatan with a gun. I am sorry I did not act. But I could have lost you.”

She places her hand over his, stills his movement and tugs on his ear with her teeth.

“And yet here I am, real, and very much alive.”

He hauls her against his body, crushing her against his chest as he reaches down to pull the hem of her infuriatingly tight dress upwards. There is no time for the luxurious meander into pleasure; a slow, teasing production is not what he desires in the urgency of this moment.

She assists him, yanking the garment upwars too, so that it gathers at her waist and stops there, and he wastes not time pushing the slick silk of her underwear to the side and trailing his fingers along the wet heat of her body.

She moans, a wounded animal, and her head rolls back, exposing her irresistible neck to his mouth.

“I refuse,” his words pour forth, matching the rhythm of his fingers as they circle her clitoris, “I refuse to lose you to anyone. To anything. To a classless con man. To any guns or hot pokers. My own brother. You’re own determination. I will not allow it.”

“I am sorry,” she whines again, and he slides both hands under her, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist as he easily hoists her up.

Both of them push bottles and swords and precious jewels and books out of the way as he sets her on the surface of the long sideboard which conceals the vault, their mouths never slowing the pace of their frantic kiss.

**-0-**

She watches as he drops to his knees, and he looks up at her and she is reminded of a sculpture she once seen in the Musée Rodin on a rainy day in Paris.

He pushes her legs wide, and she braces against the surface and arches up to help him tug her panties down to her ankles, where she flicks them delicately off with her foot.

He laughs, and it is his first genuine laugh in these fraught few weeks. She smiles coyly at the sound and watches as he dips his mouth to kiss his way from her knee to her thigh, his tongue darting out to tease her before he presses the length of his tongue against her, eliciting a moan of shuddering, bone-deep pleasure from her. She weaves her fingers into his ebony hair and pushes her pelvis up into his face, revelling in his growl of delight as he pulls her thighs over his shoulders and buries his face further into her. His tongue works mercilessly on her clit, and she feels the swift clench of muscles and nerves as he circles his tongue over and over again - not bothering to experiment with any new approaches to a task he’s undertaken on innumerable occasions. His fingers - one, two - slide into her and he curls them upwards, and begins moving them in time with his tongue. White bursts behind her eyelids almost instantly, and she cries her orgasm into the echoing expanse of their vault.

**-0-**

He stands and leans into her, his hand closing around the curve of her neck as he holds her so near he can feel her breath slow to a calm after the exertion of her pleasure. She eventually opens her eyes.

And her next words, and the open vulnerability in her eyes, surprise him;

“I am sorry I frightened you like that,” she says gently, softly touching his cheek. “I never considered the ramifications of my actions. I was just so….angry.”

She lifts his hand and turns it round to examine the slash across the back, then delicately kisses his fingers.

He raises her chin to look her in the eye. And he dresses his words with all the power he can muster.

“Never risk us. Ever. Like that again.”

She leans forward and presses her head against his own, resting there for a moment of serene peace.

“Never,” she vows, then she smiles like a cat. “And you can punish me later.”

He feels his own mouth curling into a grin.

“But right now, I want you inside of me.”

He swallows a moan of desperation and gripping her ass, pulls her to the very edge of the surface as she makes swift work of his pants and then pushes his boxers to his ankles. She grips his cock in her fine fingers, making his knees buckle as she pulls him towards her and guides him to sink into her.

“Mi amor,” he grunts, pushing as far into her as he possibly can, indulging in the way her entire body seems to consume him.

She moves against him, and he watches the rippling of her pearlescent skin, the graceful way she slides up and down and seems to be devouring every second of their joining as if it will be the last. He is certain it won't be, but her commitment is nonetheless enthralling. He cannot resist the temptation - he never can - and he closes judicious, just biting, teeth around her nipple and casts his eyes up as she howls with pleasure, her own eyes locking with his.

She begins to move more frantically, and he matches her pace with his own, gripping her hips to pull her nearer and up, and she holds him so there is no space, no time, nothing between their bodies, just the friction and delight of their joining.

She moves her mouth over his.

“Mon couer, mon amour,” she breathes, sings, hisses. “Come for me.”

“Morticia,” he growls in return, his thrusts quickening and becoming harder as her muscles tighten around him.

She lifts his face to look into his eyes, her own wide and deep and unfathomable, and her nails dig in to the smooth flesh of his cheek.

“I’ll die in your arms,” she vows.

Their mutual pleasure ricochets around the room, shattering the intensity of the silence with a burst of cries from both of them, indistinguishable and complimentary all at once.

**-0-**

“We will need a new wheel,” she says, taking consolation in the fact that their bedroom has hitherto been undisturbed, as she examines it.

That would be a violation she could not withstand.

He turns from where he is lighting the fire, and watches her for a moment.

“We will?”

She nods, “Some things are sacred.”

When she slides her nightgown over her arms she remembers the rack, and how the ropes bit into her skin. And how she felt entirely exposed and utterly enraged all at once.

“It’s alright that you enjoyed it,” he says, coming towards her and taking her wrist in his hands and examining the purple welts.

She shakes her head, “I’ve never been afraid like that before.”

He traces the angry marks, “I’ll never let anyone do that to you again. You don’t need saving,” he looks at her, “but you underestimate how much I need you.”

She is about to answer him, unsure of how when she feels so deeply humbled by the sentiment, when their children unceremoniously knock at the doors and simultaneously enter the room.

She smiles at them, and at the shovels and dirt smeared across their hands and cheeks.

“Job done,” Wednesday says, and her brother nods.

“We’re going to bed, uncle Fester is sitting with grandmama and Lurch getting drunk on all the cheap booze Doctor Pinderschloss left behind. It isn’t really your scene.”

“You’re going to have to tidy the library up,” Wednesday says, turning from the door as her brother follows. “They found your collection.”

“Thank you darlings,” she says gently. And her children stop at the door.

Oddly enough, it is not Pugsley who caves but Wednesday and she runs up to her and wraps her arms around her waist and hums her quiet pleasure.

“Father might not have gotten here on time,” she reprimands, hiding her face in the satin of Morticia’s nightgown.

“But he did,” she touches her daughter’s ebony hair, and opens her other arm to her son.

“We’d rather not become statistics,” Pugsley says dryly. “We rather like bucking the trend; being two of the few American children with two _alive_ parents who are _still_ married.”

“No statistics,” her husband assures, touching both their heads. “Not for a long time.”

They watch them go, and he closes the door behind them.

“What about adding to the number of children bucking the statistics?” He asks casually, taking a cigar from the box by the bed, lighting it and inhaling it like it’s his last breath.

She smiles and raises a brow, “Shall we sleep on it. In our massive bed?”

“That was what was really irritating you, the bed?”

He throws back the satin sheets and watches as she slides in.

“No,” she purrs. “All the daytime television. And the cheap lighting.”

“Are you glad to be home?”

She curls up against him, and he can hear the smile in her voice as his eyes slide closed.

“Delirious.”

 


End file.
